1984
by rubberbird
Summary: Sherlock/Jim. Sherlock is taken kidnap by Jim and succumbs to his confused feelings towards the psychopath. Slash.


Title: 1984

Pairing: Jim/Sherlock

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Slash, blood, violence

A/Ns: Originally written for Plain-Jane-Doe.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

**1984**

Of course the last thought that went through his mind was how stupid he had been. How predictable. But that thought hadn't lasted long. He'd been unconscious within seconds.

When he awoke, the first thing he became aware of was how dry his mouth was. It felt like all of the moisture had evaporated from his body while he'd lain inert and his lips felt uncomfortably chapped. The world looked like a hazy, grey blur above him.

In woozy spurts, the room swam into focus. It was very bright, and very, very small. It couldn't have been more than five feet in length and three in width. There were no windows, just grey concrete bricks covering all four walls. There were long, rectangular lights fitted across every inch of the ceiling. It was like sitting in the direct glare of a floodlight.

He strained his head upright and was hit by a pulse of nausea. No doubt the after-effect of being knocked out. His nostrils were still stinging from the sickly sweet odour of the cloth that had been pressed against his mouth and nose. He could almost taste it. It made him sick to his stomach.

He forced himself to sit up; his forehead throbbed. He felt keenly that he was being mocked. Like the floodlights had been placed there just to torment him. He was almost certain they had. If not him, then whoever had occupied this room before him.

He laid a palm against the plastic mattress he had been laying on. It was so thin that he could feel the cement underneath it.

"Where have you brought me?" he said hoarsely into the buzzing silence.

There was no answer. But he was watching. Somewhere he was watching. He wouldn't be able to help himself. He needed to watch.

Sherlock pressed an ear against the nearest wall. He could hear the blood pumping in his own head and nothing else. The silence was thick. It was muffled. He must have been deep underground or inside enough cement that all outside sounds were swallowed completely. He felt an uneasy twinge.

He was entombed. Entombed somewhere inside Westwood. And he was watching.

He laid his head back against the plastic mattress, it stuck to his cheek and smelt strongly of some form of harsh cleaning agent. Sherlock wondered what it had been used to clean. Maybe urine. Blood. Fluids. His eyes flickered around the room, almost expecting to see flecks of red on the walls, but everything was decidedly and uniformly grey.

Sleep shuddered uneasily over him. It wasn't really tiredness, he just couldn't keep consciousness. His head felt too heavy for him to hold up and he laid flat and panting on his back, eyelids drooping.

He didn't know how long he was out, but what could have been minutes or hours later he abruptly awoke. The nausea and dizziness had faded to a bearable throb. He sat up, rubbing the remainder of sleep from his eyes.

He pushed himself to his feet and walked around the room, examining every inch of his small prison. Wherever the camera was, he couldn't see it. But it was there. Inside one of the lights, inside one of the cracks in the wall if it was small enough.

"Come on then." His voice echoed loud and harsh against the cement walls. "You have me where you want me. What next?"

There was silence. Sherlock listened. Waited. He expected to hear a key in the lock of the door, spikes to spring from the walls, mutated rats to rush at him from a hole in the wall. But there was nothing.

He released a soft hiss, turning his back on the door.

And then, there was a crackle. An electronic crackle, like a loudspeaker being turned on. He turned back towards the door, scanning the ceiling above him.

"Hidden cameras, sound proof rooms, _chloroform_. How quaint." Sherlock mechanically scanned the inside of his cell. "How 1984. You just love playing Big Brother, don't you? Hiding behind all your gadgets and lackeys. And I thought you were making such progress on that front."

The loudspeaker gave another crackle. Almost like a human chuckle.

"So you still want to play? Let's play," he said through gritted teeth. "Face to face."

There was a high pitched hum. "Nice try, dearheart."

Sherlock jerked as Jim's melodic voice echoed around him. It seemed to come from everywhere, every direction. Sherlock felt suddenly very exposed. Vulnerable. Like a lab rat in a maze. He was being watched and tested. He was at the mercy of an unseen madman.

"Where's John?" It struck him very suddenly that he had no idea what had become of him after he blacked out.

Jim's scoff echoed around him. "So predictable. The pet is fine." He paused. There was a childlike titter. "Well, for now. Depends if you're a good boy."

Sherlock swallowed with what little saliva he had left. "Is that so? And what do I have to do to ensure his safety?" He might as well have been bargaining with Lucifer but he didn't have a choice. At least not yet.

"Hmmmmm," Jim said into the speaker, making it give a low, mechanical buzz. "That's a tough one, Sherlock. What could you _possibly _offer me? I mean. I already have you completely and utterly incapacitated. What do you suppose you have left to bargain with?"

"Talk to me face to face," Sherlock said abruptly, risking making the demand a second time and incurring Jim's unpredictable anger. "Then we can speak terms."

There was silence. Sherlock waited, counting the seconds in his head. There was a crackle and the low buzzing of the loudspeaker died.

Almost immediately, the door gave a bloodcurdling screech behind him. He turned, ignoring the furious rush of blood to his heart at the sudden sight of Jim's small, dark haired figure emerging from the doorway.

"Oh, don't look so surprised, Sherlock," he cooed, as the door swung shut behind him with a low thud. "Didn't think I was afraid to see my favourite, little meddling detective, did you?"

"I'm surprised that you don't have five rifles directed at my skull," Sherlock said, eyes narrowed. "What if I was to attack you? Right now? I'm bigger than you, Jim. I could hurt you."

Jim slid his hands in his pockets with a chuckle. "A clever boy like you knows that that would be a very silly idea." He strolled past him. Sherlock slowly turned where he was, keeping his eyes fixed on him. "You were wondering where I stashed Johnny-boy."

He took one of his hands out of his pockets, producing a mobile phone. Without turning, he held it out to Sherlock. Sherlock stared at it and didn't take it.

"Tick tock, Sherlock." Jim gave an ostentatious yawn.

Sherlock hesitantly took it and lit up the screen. His veins felt to have frozen inside of him. John was facing him, eyes fixed on him. No, on the camera. Or on whoever was holding the camera. He couldn't see Sherlock. There was a thick piece of electrical tape covering his mouth and a deep purple bruise over his left eye. Sherlock's hand tightened around the phone until it hurt.

"Let him go." The words came out like a spitting out poison.

Jim held out a palm for the phone. "But why? When he's so useful to me."

Sherlock didn't move. Jim let out an exaggerated sigh and yanked Sherlock's hand towards him. He pried his fingers off the phone one by one with a surprisingly strong grip. His fingers were cold and smooth. Nothing like John's warm, callused skin. His ring finger grazed the underside of Sherlock's wrist and goosebumps erupted up his arms.

"Sensitive?" Jim said softly, looking up at Sherlock with dark eyes glinting. "Interesting."

Face burning, Sherlock took a hasty step back, almost tripping over his own feet. "What do you want?" he asked brusquely.

Jim released an extended sigh. "Ah, the eternal question. _What does Jim Moriarty want?_"

Sherlock laughed coldly. "Your games get boring fast, Moriarty. Make your demands or kill me."

Jim cocked his head to one side. "Don't tempt me, darling." He pouted his lips in a mocking kiss to the air. "I like you, Sherlock. You're such an amusing oddity. You seem to have convinced yourself that you're _just like me_. But you're nothing like me. Not really."

"Why would I want to be anything like you?" Sherlock snarled, his mind skipping on the image of John's face half obscured by electrical tape.

"Because then," Jim said very slowly, as though talking to an imbecile "you wouldn't be so constantly tormented by these feelings of... of _goodness. _Like you owe the world something. Like you owe _people_ something. And don't tell me those feelings aren't there, Sherlock, my dear. Because I know they are."

"You don't know the first thing about me," Sherlock growled. He turned and stalked across to the wall the plastic mattress was pushed against. He needed to get away from Jim. He needed Jim to get away from him. But he was everywhere, in every inch of the walls, in every inch of the room. He was suffocating him. He was getting into his skin, his lungs.

Cold fingers touched his neck and he started but didn't struggle as they slid around his throat, just resting there with the slightest, teasing pressure. He felt Jim's body behind him. It didn't touch him, but he could feel its presence. Cold, not warm like John's.

"I could have killed you. That night." Sherlock shivered at the sensation of warm breath against his neck. It seemed unnatural that anything belonging to Jim should be warm. He expected everything: his blood, his breath, his skin, his heart to be cold. "Do you ever wonder why I didn't?"

"No," Sherlock said, fixing his eyes on a crack in the wall. He traced it up and up to the ceiling. It looked like someone had tried to get out of here once. "I know why."

"Here's a tip, Sherlock." The voice was so close to him now, the body was so nearly touching his. He wondered blearily if Jim could see how his limbs trembled. "Never turn your back on someone who has your life in his hands."

Sherlock's mouth collided with the cement wall. He tasted blood and felt something gritty between his teeth as a hand curled hard into his hair, forcing his face painfully into the bricks.

He felt a hand grip the collar of his shirt. Jim pulled it tight until he almost chocked. His laugh reached his ears: high and derisive, like a child discovering a new game, a new toy. With a rush of fury, he slammed his elbow back hard into Jim's stomach.

He was abruptly released and fell against the wall, while Jim spluttered behind him. He breathed in the smell of dirt and damp, the oxygen rushing into his lungs in grateful spurts. He turned and slumped against the wall, staring wildly at Jim. He was wheezing, one hand clutching at his stomach.

He lifted up a hand, with a choking laugh. "That... is not very... nice, Sherlock."

"Touch me again and it'll be your face," Sherlock breathed, eyes fixed on his weakened enemy.

Jim looked up at him, still crouched over where he was. His usually milky white complexion was tinged with pink. "I think you're forgetting just what I have in my possession." He straightened up, dusting off his suit with exaggerated strokes.

"Leave him out of it," Sherlock said coarsely, his throat aching. "This is between you and me."

"That's true," Jim said, with a shrug. He turned and wandered across to the opposite wall. His hair was slightly ruffled out of its usual slick mound. "But you seem unwilling to cooperate unless I dangle a certain army-doctor-shaped carrot in front of your nose."

Sherlock stirred against the wall. He pushed himself upright. He could feel sweat beaded across his forehead and the back of his neck. "And that pisses you off," he said. A statement, not a question. "That I have someone I'm willing to... to..." The word stuck in his throat.

Jim turned his head towards him. He was no longer smiling. "You would _die_ for him?" he said poisonously. "How touching. I wonder if he would do the same for you. Perhaps we should find out?"

He touched the pocket where his mobile phone was. Sherlock could see he was watching him out of the corner of his eye.

"Oh dear. Did I touch a nerve?" Sherlock said nastily, taking a step towards him.

Jim didn't move; his hand drifted into his pocket. "How predictable of you to fall in love with someone the complete opposite of yourself. You disappoint me."

Sherlock stopped short where he was. "What the hell are you talking about? I am _not _in love with-"

Jim scoffed loudly over the top of him. "And yet you'd _die_ for him. You bore me."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous," Sherlock said, eyes tracing the outline of Jim's crisp, clean suit.

"You say a lot of stupid things." Jim still didn't turn.

"You should learn to take your own advice." Sherlock was close enough that he could see the label on the back of Jim's shirt poking halfway out.

"_What_?" Jim said sharply.

"Never turn your back on someone who has your life in his hands," Sherlock growled. He slid a knee between Jim's legs and shoved him forwards into the wall. His face hit it with a satisfying smack.

Jim let out a harsh chuckle against the bricks. "Ooh! Sherlock, I had no idea," he wheezed. "What will people think?"

Sherlock snarled, giving him a sharp shove into it. "Where are your lackeys? Are they just going to sit back and watch you being manhandled?"

"You can handle me any way you want." Jim gasped, still shuddering with laughter. "They won't come. They know not to."

"Let John go." Sherlock tightened his grip on Jim's neck. "And I'll let you go."

"Tell me, how does it feel to _feel?_" Jim panted, squirming weakly against him. The unexpected friction against his crotch made Sherlock release a soft sound that could all too easily be construed as something like a groan. He gritted his teeth furiously at himself, but the damage was done.

Jim sniggered underneath him. "Oh you're a horny boy, Sherlock!" he exclaimed. "Doesn't Johnny-boy take care of you, Sherlock? Doesn't he make you feel good?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably behind him. Heat and blood was rushing to his groin. He unconsciously loosened his grip on Jim, and before he could take a breath Jim had twisted around and put his hands around his neck.

Jim stared up at him, face so close Sherlock could see every feature. "I've killed people, Sherlock. I've killed so many people. And yet, here you are, _yearning_ for me."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in what he hoped was a convincing manner. "I don't want to hear your disturbed fantasies, Jim."

"We could do such great things together," Jim went on as though he hadn't spoken. He moved one of his hands to Sherlock's mouth, clasping his chin between his fingers, forcing Sherlock's lips into a pout. "You need to curb those emotions of yours. They interfere with your otherwise perfect, unfeeling mind."

Sherlock inhaled unsteadily. He couldn't move. He couldn't move, and his body was pressed against Jim's. His nostrils were full of the man's scent. His cologne, the heat from his body. Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Why so silent?" Jim's fingers slid down from Sherlock's mouth to rest on his throat again. It felt strangely like a caress.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He thrust Jim backwards. It took every ounce of his diminished strength to do it, to move him, but he heard Jim yelp as he collided with the wall. His body burned at the sound.

Jim's hands were yanked from his neck but they were soon grasping at his clothes, his shoulders and then he was forcing his mouth against his. Sherlock bit back the whimper that threatened to leave his mouth and curled his hands around Jim's waist.

Jim laughed wildly against Sherlock's mouth, his fingers clawing at Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock could feel his nails, could feel every inch of Jim's small, slim body. The feeling was so foreign; the feeling was so unknown to him. In his fantasies it had been John, but this was Jim and he was vicious, aggressive and painfully erotic.

Sherlock felt himself being forced backwards. He stumbled and almost lost his balance more than once, but Jim's hands were tight on his shirt. Sherlock gasped in surprise and pain when he hit the wall behind him. His mouth was torn from Jim's. His lips felt damp and he was certain he was bleeding.

Jim's breath was hot against Sherlock's cheek; his hands were wrapped around his collar. "You're going to scream for me, Sherlock. You're going to give yourself to me." His voice wavered into barely more than a hiss.

Sherlock shook his head blearily. "Piss off."

Jim smirked and pressed his mouth against his bruised neck. Sherlock couldn't stop the moan wrenched from his throat. Jim's hands loosened on his clothes and instead moved to pin his wrists against the wall either side of his head.

His knees buckled underneath him. Damp, warm lips suckled heatedly on his throat, swaying between a kiss and a bite. He knew there'd be marks in the morning. He knew he'd be branded like some sort of animal, and that thought only served to make him harder. He rested his head against the wall, a whimper finally betraying him.

Jim hummed against his skin. "You're enjoying this. Dirty boy."

Sherlock flushed in humiliation. He wrenched his hands from Jim's grip. In one rough movement, he changed their positions, forcing Jim against the wall and relishing in his cry of pain.

Sherlock tore at the buttons on Jim's shirt, forcing his jacket off his shoulders. Jim didn't miss a beat: a moment later he was fumbling fiercely with Sherlock's jeans, his fingers straying dangerously close to the ache that had formed between Sherlock's legs.

Jim pushed him firmly down onto the plastic mattress beneath them. Sherlock tumbled backwards with a yelp, dragging Jim with him. Jim straddled his bare hips with a triumphant smirk.

He ground his crotch against Sherlock's, hissing softly. "Mmm. I always knew you got off on danger, Sherlock. Look how hard you are. Oh, my naughty boy."

Sherlock panted, struggling to rest on his elbows. "Ah! Jim-Uh!" he groaned, unable to think or retaliate while Jim was gyrating against him.

He hadn't ever felt anything like the pure, unadulterated lust pumping through his veins at that moment. There were no thoughts, no emotions, just raw and pulsing _need._

"Look at you," Jim said, his voice soft and sweet as he touched Sherlock's cheek with a clammy palm. "Oh, just look what I've reduced you to. A writhing mass of helpless _lust_. Doesn't it make you want to submit to me? Tell me, Sherlock. Tell me how you want to give yourself to me."

Sherlock growled, clasping a hand around Jim's chin and tugging his face down towards him. "You're just a needy, little schoolboy."

Jim pushed closer to him, his mouth drifting teasingly close to his. "Punish me then. I've been a bad boy, Sherlock. I know it makes you angry. What I've done. Punish me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He slid his hands roughly around Jim's waist and lifted him clumsily from his place on his hips. Jim rested on his knees, panting and flushing. There was a protruding mound between his legs. Sherlock was almost taken aback by the stark evidence of Jim's arousal.

He palmed it beneath his fingers almost simply out of curiosity and Jim arched his back with a violent shiver. "Yes, _touch me_, Sherlock."

A taut, heated pulse rushed to Sherlock's crotch. He gasped for air. Jim's smirk widened, he leant towards him again, this time pressing his lips damply to the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "You've never felt anything like this, have you?" His voice wavered, its usual bounce seeming to fail him.

He pressed a hand to Sherlock's chest, bunching his shirt up in his fist. "Take me."

It was an order. Even now, while begging Sherlock to fuck him, he was ordering him like his personal lackey.

Sherlock slipped his fingers into Jim's trousers and gave them a rough tug. They came surprisingly easily. He did the same to Jim's underwear, slower now and never taking his eyes off of Jim's. He could see every fleck of desperation in Jim's eyes. The psychopath couldn't hide it.

His cock was standing proudly to attention and leaking. Sherlock didn't touch it. He slid a hand underneath Jim's expensive shirt, fondling one of his hardened nipples between his fingertips. Jim's lips slipped open, he gaped at him. "You horny bastard," he gasped.

Sherlock felt his lips tweak into what felt suspiciously like a smile. Jim was undeniably lovely. Pale, delicate, slim, breakable. It was hard to believe that something so fragile was so dangerous.

He let his fingers drift down Jim's stomach, revelling in how his skin shuddered against his fingertips. He stroked the sensitive skin beneath Jim's navel, moving his other hand to tease the inside of Jim's thigh, while his weeping sex twitched desperately for attention.

"Enough teasing," Jim snarled, his patience suddenly waning. He lowered himself against Sherlock's cock, pushing his unprepared entrance against Sherlock's leaking crown. Sherlock cried out.

"It'll hurt," he panted, clutching at Jim's thighs. "It'll burn."

"Mmm, yes." Jim whimpered as he forced himself harder onto Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat. A hoarse cry was torn from his chest. The tightness, the heat felt like it might suffocate him. "_Oh."_

Jim arched his back, grinding his hole against Sherlock's cock. Sherlock almost chocked at the thought of how painful it must have been. Jim let out an almost animalistic moan, beginning to thrust himself violently onto Sherlock's sex. Sherlock knew what the dampness on his cock was. He arched his neck up and saw blood stained against Jim's perfect, white thighs.

He let out a harsh groan; his hips began to sway in time with Jim's movements. Jim's eyes fluttered open. He was brilliantly red now. He pressed a damp palm against Sherlock's chest. "Yes," he moaned. "_Fuck_ me, Sherlock."

Jim curled his back with a desperate writhe on top of him. Sherlock could see sweat beginning to stain Jim's expensive shirt. "Blood," Sherlock said hoarsely.

Jim fixed his eyes on him, panting uncontrollably. "_Harder_."

Sherlock was hardly conscious of his own movements now. They were both moving so roughly, so desperately against each other. They parted and then joined and then parted and then joined, as though partaking in some sordid, heated dance.

Sherlock could feel his orgasm building. He could feel it stirring, like a tempest inside of him. The rage, the humiliation and the panic had been swallowed by a forceful sensation he had never experienced. Utter need. Utter need for release.

He stared at the ceiling beyond Jim's dark hair, feeling blank and oddly removed from the scene. He felt like he was observing each of Jim's desperate thrusts, the slight mess of blood around his thighs, the expression torn across Jim's fragile, poisonously lovely features. Observing in some faint, tenuous manner.

"Need... need... to," Sherlock garbled, not even conscious of speaking.

He focused blearily on Jim's face. He wanted to watch him reach his orgasm. He wanted to watch him release, knowing he had made it so. That it was him, not Jim who had made it so.

Jim made a sound like nothing Sherlock had heard. Raw, lustful, heated, barely human. His eyes were fixed on Sherlock and the expression forcing itself onto his features was painful and flawless.

"Ah! _Sherlock_!" Jim released a shuddery moan and his whole body gave a violent convulsion above him.

Sherlock heard his name torn from Jim's mouth and lost control. He was alarmed and almost taken off guard by the explosiveness of his own orgasm. He gripped desperately onto Jim's waist.

"Ohhh," he groaned, hardly able to keep himself from crying Jim's name, like he had cried his.

He collapsed flat against the mattress. He could feel the cement through it and Jim sitting heavily on his thighs. He was shuddering and quivering against him.

He gazed down at Sherlock, a perfect vision of dishevelment. Sherlock wished his Westwood cronies could have seen him now, covered in his own seed and bleeding from being fucked by the man he had sworn to destroy.

Sherlock felt sweaty fingers touch his cheek. He jerked, consciousness rushing into him in a sickly wave. "Sherlock," Jim said softly. He leant down and pressed his lips against his in a sticky, balmy kiss.

Sherlock didn't react. Jim slid his fingers through his hair; his body nearly flush against him. "You're bleeding," Sherlock said quietly.

Jim jerked and straightened up. He looked down at the mess of blood and semen between his legs. He crawled off of Sherlock, his trousers still wrapped around his thighs. Sherlock struggled weakly upright, watching Jim crawl across the floor, bloody and used.

He stared down at himself. He was covered in flecks of Jim's cum and blood. He wiped it away and yanked his jeans up. The flurry of pleasure, desire, need had subsided and he suddenly felt very cold.

Jim faced him, crouching low on the concrete floor. "My pretty boy. You did so well."

"When do I get John back?" Sherlock said brusquely.

Resentment darkened Jim's features and Sherlock felt a spiteful pang of relish. "I'm not finished with you yet," he snapped, struggling upright and yanking his trousers up his stained legs. "Not even close."

End


End file.
